In April 2015 I wrote about a dream I had of Mary. (It is posted elsewhere in this blog). She was facing the light and was heading off, without me, and without her sweater. Some time ago, perhaps a year or more now, I had another dream of her, which I thought I should document here as we approach the 7th anniversary of her passing. Seven years already! Time flies.
In this dream I was walking, alone, in a European city, in a neighbourhood consisting of tall older buildings on narrow streets lining canals. (I had recently returned from a trip to Amsterdam, which bears a striking resemblance to this dream city). It was night, but the city was lit up for a festival of some kind, and the narrow streets were crowded with people drinking and singing and dancing. Where the streets widened into plazas in front of churches or municipal buildings, there were food kiosks and bandstands, streamers and lanterns, jewelry and knick-knack vendors.
I wandered around one such plaza, surrounded by people in wild costumes and extravagant makeup. There was a lot of background noise, made up of laughter and singing and music. The crowd was at that density where sometimes you can find yourself in a dense group, then suddenly you are briefly in the open. I moved with the currents, seeking more open areas. As one such lead opened up in the crowd, I spotted Mary on the other side of the plaza.
She was wearing what looked, from a distance, like a full body tattoo covering one side of her body, from her toes to the roots of her hair. The tattoo was of a tree, her feet the roots and with colourful birds and playful squirrels partly hidden behind leaves and branches; her hair was spiky and green and mimicked the crown of the tree. The tattoo on her face was of a brightly coloured peacock looking out from the foliage. The other side of her body was dressed in a very nondescript monochrome fashion, with her head shaved on that side.
She saw me, gave me a big smile and a wave; then the crowd closed in again and she was gone.
Seems to me she was having a great time. Certainly the wild appearance is something she would have done in life. And it also seems to me that she wanted me not to worry about her but to get on with my life; we'll meet again eventually, but not yet.
...
Recently I also thought back to the service we held in her memory in the spring of 2014. Friends and relatives told stories and sang songs; Rolf (the Buddhist monk we knew through friends) kept things going. I was pretty numb and when Rolf suggested I say a few words, initially I didn't know where to start, as I hadn't been able to prepare anything.
But as I stood up I thought that each of us has a special gift, a superpower that, to the holder, seems so easy and intuitive that it is difficult to understand that others might find it frightfully difficult. One thinks of musicians who have a skill to start with; for some of us no amount of training or courses or practice will make us into a concert pianist. (Case in point: I am listening to Glenn Gould's rendering of the Well-Tempered Clavier as I type this).
Mary's superpower was the ability to listen to children and teenagers, especially ones in trouble, in such a way that they wanted to confide in her; and to speak with them in such a way they wanted to listen and understand. She used this empathetic skill in conversations with our children but also with our nieces and nephews and other children lucky enough to meet her; and this was the secret to her success as a social worker in the field of youth protection.
So in my comments to the assembled group, I recall speaking to my children, my nieces and nephews and their partners, and asking them to remember how Mary interacted with them as they were growing up, dealing with the various challenges that children face and that we as adults tend to forget. I asked them, as they become adults and have children of their own, to try to adopt some of Mary's approaches; while you may never be a Glenn Gould, the objective should be to be able to chunk out a few chords from Mary's songbook. In this way we can hope to spread some of Mary's gift of empathy and child-like understanding wider, which can only be good for the world.
Today I watch the next generation of children; and I am pleased with how they are turning out. Mary's approach to child-rearing is living on in her children, her nieces and nephews and their partners.
At the ceremony I asked my brother to sing a song that he wrote with his partner. It is called "The Path You Leave Behind"; it is described as a non-denominational gospel number. It is wonderful to see that the path Mary forged continues to be trodden, and I hope this will continue through future generations as well. Meanwhile I am happy that she has found the quirky kind of space where she will thrive.
